SKELETONS. | J. JK

PART ONE.

        Sleep has never come easy for Jungkook. And, trust him, he has tried multiple times, by multiples methods but nothing has ever given him more than four hours of uninterrupted rest. Counting sheep, laying with his head on the foot of the bed, night exercise, herbal teas and sprays, white noise, sleeping pills, fucking ASMR, the list goes on for a while after that.

He has reached the point that perhaps sleep is indeed overrated, that perhaps sleep is indeed for the weak because if he could function for twenty or so years by one hand counted hours of sleep a day, other people must have been doing it the wrong way. Or, perhaps, he was fast charged, like his phone.

He doesn't like sleeping anyway. Being still, most of the time, laid down on a bed, as time passes by unconsciously, isn't necessarily a thought that pleases him to begin with. It's wasted time, if he's being honest. Humans waste about twenty-three years of their lives sleeping. Jungkook is twenty-three years old! He can't bear to imagine the ridicule of spending his whole life so far laid down on a bed, doing absolutely nothing.

Not everything is a waste in the idea of prolonged hours of sleep though. Jungkook would dream longer, if he could. And, sure, a lot of the times he wakes up in cold sweat, at butthole o'clock, remembering nothing more than figments of blurred, distorted images of something that once felt so real but, it still is an escape. Dreams don't play in his mind as a film of memories but rather stay imprinted in his fingertips and Jungkook can almost feel the roughness of the woods, the cold of the lake water, the wet grass tickling his feet, the warmth of your hands, the smell sometimes so strong he can almost tell which flowers bloomed and wilted in his dream, the breeze kissing his skin, the sound of your laughter, the taste of strawberries in your lips, it's so close he can almost feel it, so close—

But then he wakes up and another reason to loath sleep piles over the list, again and again. Sleep's dreadful sense of timing. So, when the doctor asks: "Mr. Jeon, have you been sleeping better these days?";

He answers: "Like a baby, doc!"

The lie rolls off his words like it was the most obvious of truths.

"So, you could say the adjustments in the medication have been successful so far?" The doctor looks at him under the rounded rims of her glasses, eyebrows suspended up in her forehead in a subtle suspicion.

"Absolutely." Jungkook nods almost fervently and portrays the best convincing smile he can muster. "Feeling the best, I've ever felt in a long while."

Jungkook has been perfecting this exact moment for some time now, it isn't the first time he... well, tiptoed around the truth without really touching it; however, in the long run, he had always been caught up, but today is different.

"Have you perhaps been feeling drowsy or feverish? Noticed any side effect that might be affecting you in any way? This is important, Mr. Jeon."

She still doesn't know when to give up, uh, Jungkook thinks to himself. He sighs in that way that makes it seem that trying to remember is an effort on itself. The doctor watches attentively, she isn't oblivious to Jungkook's antics to escape any sort of treatment.

"Hmm, let me think about it for a while..." He drags out the reply, lifts his chin up a bit, his eyes stroll around the ceiling of the white room, he opens and closes his mouth but doesn't really say anything. "No, not really. I'm feeling pretty good, I swear."

He grins.

"Isn't it great, doc? I think we finally found something that works for me." He adds later, realizing the woman wasn't still too convinced from the way she tilts her head to the side and keeps scribbling in her notes. Oh, what he would do to know whatever the people here write on his records— and burn it all, afterwards!

"I just hope it will last this time, Jungkook." She tells him, expressing actual worry and not the usual indifference he finds more often than not over this place. "It isn't first time you show good results to medication at first only to find out it's doing more harm than good. Everyone here wants you healthy, you do understand that, don't you?"

The young man only peeps a tight, discreetly bitter smile and nods. "Yes, doctor Kim, I know. I want to be healthy too. And, in order for me to be so, we need to keep being optimistic, right?"

"Yes, I think so too." She acknowledges.

"Trust me, doc," Jungkook brightens up again. "I'm doing just fine and I honestly think that this time will be different. I can feel it."

It takes merely a little bit more of persuasion to get around doctor Kim and get her to trust Jungkook's words. For a moment he still lashes in the hesitation of if this is the right thing to do but quickly shakes his head and becomes more convict than ever that this is what he needs. He lives in this body; he owns this mind and the hell with the day that he won't be able to control them himself. He, more than anyone, should know what he needs.

They shake hands as the woman walks him to the door of her office. A soft smile, framed by the worrisome wrinkles, emerges in her lips as she hands him the prescription for this new medication and kindly reminds him that the next appointment has been adjourned for the fortnight.

"I can't stress this enough, Mr. Jeon, if you need anything," She holds his hands tighter in hers. "anything at all, don't hesitate to give me a call. Or anyone from the department, for that matter. Alright?"

"Alright, doctor Kim." He complies with an attempt of a carefree grin. "I won't be a stranger, and I will take care of myself."

*

"That will be thirty-six dollars, sir," The cashier says as he scans the bar code on the computer. He looks up, and smiles yellowy.

Jungkook doesn't really hesitate and whips his wallet out and pays. As he waits, he eardrops to an elder man behind him complaining with another that with every passing day, meds get more and more expensive, that half of his retirement pension goes to health expenses.

"Is this really the cost of a longer life, filling people up with medication cocktails, I bet we don't even need half of them."

"It's all a trick for the Government to get richer! Make the rich, richer, the poor, poorer."

The boy makes the effort to get his bag ready quickly and exits the pharmacy. He can't stand the smell, the sterilized stench, although less aggressive, still similar to the hospital ones. It makes him more ill than what he already is.

As he pushes the door out and leaves the pharmacy, an urgent feeling of freedom awaits him there, it wraps around him and leads him to look up at the rare blue, cloudless sky. It's a beautiful day, today.

The full yellow plastic bag swings in his curled fingers pleasantly— completely ignorant to its approaching tragic fate—with the wind as Jungkook hesitates between catching the bus on the next stop or walking home. He ends up choosing the latter and with his steps light on sidewalk he pursues the path he has already learned by heart.

He passes through a couple blocks before deciding to stop in front of a trust-worthy trash bin. It seems half full, which may mean it will probably be cleaned out soon. Perfect. Jungkook offers a last goodbye glare what at feels like more poisonous than the raw, curding pain that has found home in him and carefully lets the yellow bag fall within the rest of the trash.

Jungkook watches it, emotionless, disappear, drowning in the amidst of the bottom of the bin. His hands, pale and tired, retrieve back to the pockets of his bomber jacket and he keeps going, never once turning back to maintain vivid the memory of a chance to treatment.

He doesn't expect people to understand. They don't know what is like anyway. He doesn't need happy little pills to feel better, he doesn't need to be drugged to function, it isn't really living if he goes through the day unconscious of what's really happening before his eyes, even if in exchange the pain is drowned until the next morning. When he takes the meds, everything turns into tunnel vision and Jungkook is merely floating aimlessly. He sees nothing, he feels nothing.

And, if he feels nothing, art slips through his fingers. He is empty again.